Dead by Wednesday. Beverly Long

by somebody like my parents? No, thanks.”

      Carmen nodded. Not much to say to that, was there? “Have you had any prenatal care?”

      Alexa nodded. “At the health department. Everything is fine. I’m twenty-eight weeks. The baby is due April 15.”

      “How much longer do you think you can hide your pregnancy from your family?” Carmen asked.

      “Probably not much longer. In a week, I have a family wedding. I’m not going to be able to wear a sweatshirt and baggy pants or my coat. I think the cat is going to be pretty much out of the bag.”

      “You should tell your parents before then,” Carmen said.

      “I know. That’s why I’m here. Frank doesn’t do so good with surprises. Goes a little crazy sometimes.”

      “What kind of crazy?” Carmen asked. “Crazy yelling or crazy something else?”

      “When my mother hit a post with the fender of our car, he slapped her so hard that he split her lip.”

      Carmen felt sick.

      “You were the counselor who helped my neighbor, Angelina. She said you were wonderful. I was hoping you could be there when I tell him.”

      Chapter Two

      Raoul almost dropped his trombone when a skinny man stepped out of the dry cleaner’s doorway, right into his path. His dark hair was slicked down on his head and pulled back into a short ponytail. His skin was really pale and he had gray eyes.

      “Hi, there,” the man said.

      He was about six inches taller than Raoul, which basically wasn’t all that tall. His shoulders were wide and he had on a really ugly plaid coat.

      Raoul tried to step around him.

      The man stepped with him, blocking his path.

      “Hey, man,” Raoul said. He’d already had a really bad day and all he wanted was to go home.

      “Is that how you treat your friends, Raoul?”

      Friends? “Who are you? How do you know my name?” Raoul asked, feeling uncomfortable. He looked around. There were other people on the sidewalk, but nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him.

      “I know a lot about you. Your brother Hector and I were friends. Real tight.”

      Hector had been dead for eleven years. Whenever anybody said Hector’s name, his sister, Carmen, got a real funny look on her face and she got sad. Once, when he asked her about it, she said that she was just so sorry that Hector had died.

      That made him feel even worse that he couldn’t remember Hector. He’d only been four when he’d died. He couldn’t tell Carmen the truth. That would probably make her even sadder.

      “You really knew Hector?”

      “Oh, yeah. One time, before he died, he told me that if anything ever happened to him, that I should watch out for you.”

      Raoul didn’t know what to say to that and anyway, his throat felt tight.

      “Your brother used to talk about you all the time. Said that having a kid brother was cool.”

      Hector would have understood how hard it was to be the smallest kid in the class. He’d have known how humiliating it was to have someone jam your head into a toilet. He’d have known how ridiculous it felt to be tripped going down the hall and have your books fly everywhere.

      He’d have known how much it hurt when everyone laughed.

      “What’s your favorite song?” the man asked, giving Raoul’s shoulder a light punch.

      Raoul didn’t want to talk music. Even though this guy had been a friend of Hector’s, he sort of gave him the creeps. “What’s your name?” he asked again.

      The man shook his head. “We’ll talk soon, Raoul. I know what your brother wanted for you. I’m here to make sure you get it. Now, go home. Practice your music like a good boy.”

      * * *

      BY THE END of the day, the police knew just a little more than they had that morning. The boy had not been killed on site. No, somewhere else, and then brought into the alley. One of the neighbors said that he’d left the neighborhood bar and walked home, cutting through the alley shortly before two in the morning. He swore that the body hadn’t been there. If he was right, then the drop-off had occurred sometime between two and four, which was earlier than the other three killings. Those bodies had been found late in the day, and the coroner had estimated time of death to be late afternoon, early evening.

      Was the killer getting more anxious?

      That thought kept Robert and Sawyer and a half dozen other detectives knocking on doors, for six blocks in every direction, in the hopes that somebody had seen something. Maybe they’d also walked through the alley, maybe they’d seen a car idling nearby, maybe they’d heard something unusual.

      It was the proverbial looking for a needle in a haystack, but dead kids got feet on the street.

      Early evening, Robert and Sawyer returned to the parking lot behind their police station. They parked the department-issued cruiser and walked toward their own cars. “I’m starting to really hate Wednesdays,” Robert said.

      Sawyer nodded. “Yeah, me, too. At least I have dinner to look forward to. I’m picking up pizza at Toni’s. Liz invited Carmen over to look at Catherine’s room. I painted it this weekend.”

      All damn day Carmen Jimenez had been on his mind. “I’ve been thinking of doing some painting,” Robert said.

      Sawyer smiled. “Yeah. But for some reason, I doubt you’re thinking pink.”

      Robert shrugged. “What did you use? A gloss, semigloss or a flat?”

      Sawyer waved a hand. “I have no idea. I used the paint in the can that Liz brought home from the paint store.”

      “Oh, good grief. Now I’ve got to see this paint job. If you get the pizza, I’ll get a couple bottles of wine on my way. As long as you think it will be okay with Liz.”

      “Liz adores you. Why, I’m not a hundred percent sure.”

      Robert shoved his friend, then had to grab him to keep him from slipping on the snow, which was gathering a top layer of ice as the temperature continued to drop.

      “Be careful,” Robert said.

      “Be on time,” Sawyer said, getting into his car. “I’m hungry.”

      Less than forty-five minutes later, Robert knocked on his partner’s door. He’d had time to run home, take a five-minute shower and grab a couple of bottles of wine off the rack in his kitchen.

      While he was perfectly happy in his ultramodern high-rise, he had to admit that he loved Sawyer’s house. A month before Liz and Sawyer had gotten married, Liz and Catherine had moved into the eighty-year-old brownstone. Now the family occupied the first two floors and rented out the top floor to a single woman who spent most of the week traveling.

      The house had good bones. Before meeting Liz, Sawyer had already refinished the oak floors, replaced all the lighting and hung artwork that reminded him of the Deep South. Liz had added feminine touches that had turned the wonderful structure into a home.

      “Hi, Robert,” Liz said as she opened the door. She leaned forward for a kiss on the cheek. “Come in quickly. It’s freezing.”

      He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He could hear the soft murmur of voices from the living room. He heard Carmen laugh, and there wasn’t a cold bone in his body.

      Liz peered at the wine. “Very nice,” she said. “The pizza is good but this may put it to shame.”

      Robert set the wine on the entryway